


Bring All Your Old Scars

by mistynights



Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, F/F, Gen, Stabbing, Temporary Character Death, it's fine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-03
Updated: 2021-01-03
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:54:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,168
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28471230
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mistynights/pseuds/mistynights
Summary: After being rescued from the bottom of the sea, Quynh goes looking for Andromache to get her revenge
Relationships: Andy | Andromache of Scythia/Quynh | Noriko, Booker | Sebastien le Livre & Quynh | Noriko, Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova, Minor or Background Relationship(s), Nile Freeman & Quynh | Noriko
Comments: 4
Kudos: 48
Collections: The Old Guard Mini Bang 2020





	Bring All Your Old Scars

**Author's Note:**

> Written for The Old Guard Mini Bang 2020. 
> 
> Huge thanks to [static_abyss](https://archiveofourown.org/users/static_abyss/) for beta-reading this fic, and [mific](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mific/works/) for the fantastic artwork and last minute timeline check. You are both awesome ^^
> 
> Title from I'll Be Your Man by Passenger

It’s not dying that’s the problem, it’s coming back to life. Inside her iron prison, dying is a break. It’s the chance to clear her head for a few minutes. It’s, ironically, like a breath of fresh air. 

Coming back, though, that’s where the problem is.

Quynh has to train herself very early on not to gasp, not to try and fill her lungs with air that isn’t there. It’s painful and maddening and it doesn’t always work, but the calmness of running out of air in contrast to the burn of water in her lungs almost makes it worth it. Almost. She’s still dying and coming back to life over and over and over with no end in sight.

***

She thinks about Andromache a lot, in the beginning. It’s not easy, stringing together coherent thoughts when you’re only alive for a couple of minutes at a time, but she does her best.

It’s just memories at first, a way for Quynh to keep herself grounded—and isn’t that a thought. She thinks of how they met for the first time and of the battles they fought, the people they found, the places they went. She focuses on their late night conversations, words whispered against the other’s skin to keep their companions from waking. She focuses on Andromache’s touch, on the feeling of her hands in Quynh’s, she focuses on her lips, softer than any silk, warm against Quynh's body even in the dead of winter. 

When she runs out of memories, she begins fantasizing, begins imagining the possibility of meeting again. Quynh lets her mind drift to reunions, to warm hugs and teary kisses, to gentle hands and soft words of relief. Every time she feels her consciousness slipping from her, every time the water fills her lungs, she lets herself believe that this will be her last drowning. Surely she has broken free already and is looking for Quynh. Surely Andromache, with her bright, bright mind and her years of expertise, must be close. Surely Quynh will be dragged out of the water anytime soon. Surely Andromache won’t give up on finding her. Surely she will be saved. Surely.

Except she keeps dying and coming back and dying and _coming back and_ _dying and—_ it keeps happening. No matter how hard she hopes, how much she imagines things to be different, it just keeps happening. And despite herself, almost too slow for her to notice, her thoughts begin turning sour.

As time continues to pass, Quynh begins to think that maybe she really is doomed to be forever underwater, forever drowning, until the end of time. Surely Andromache would have found her already if she really wanted to. Surely Andromache would have the contacts necessary to track Quynh to wherever it is she’s been thrown. Surely she would have found her by now—how long has it been? A century? Two?—if she’d really put her mind to it. Surely.

And then her memories start shifting, like a cube rotating to reveal a new face. If Andromache isn’t really trying to find her, what's to say Quynh was ever more than a burden to her? What's to say Andromache hasn’t been waiting for an opportunity to get rid of her? Who's to say that the last scream of Quynh’s name before she was taken away wasn’t just a farce to disguise a look of relief? Who's to say Andromache isn’t celebrating Quynh’s fate?

Anger and betrayal churn inside her, ugly, claws ripping her from the inside out. Before she realizes what exactly is happening, feelings and truths she’s held close to her heart have morphed into a horrible mess and shown their twisted side. It angers her to know she’s been so blind, so stupid not to see reality before. It angers her that it’s taken her dying over and over to understand what she can now clearly see has always been right in front of her.

It makes her blood boil, yes, but it gives her something new to focus on. By the time she's accepted this new reality as her truth, she’s started plotting. 

A sentimental part of her hopes she never leaves the ocean floor. Because the moment she’s free, she will hunt Andromache down.

***

She comes back to life to an odd feeling of movement. It's not the usual rocking of the sea current, soft as it may be so deep underwater. Nor is it the rapid shaking of an earthquake, more common than she'd like. No, this movement is different, upwards, almost. Like something pulling on her underwater prison. 

It'd be so easy to close her eyes and let hope envelope her. So easy to wish this was really—finally—Andromache, here to rescue her after all this time.

But Quynh lost the last of her hope a long time ago and no number of nothing will give it back to her.

She has lost count, besides, of the number of times she's felt she was being rescued only to realize it was just a trick of her mind, a product of stupid dreams and wishful thinking. 

So she doesn't hope, now, despite the shaking of her prison and the lurch of her stomach. What she does is close her eyes and relax her muscles. What she does is breathe in deep and let the water fill her up inside.

***

She's breaking the surface when she comes back to life again. She gasps as she opens her eyes and then chokes on nothing when the only thing to fill her mouth is air. Around her, everything is too bright, her eyes hurting after who knows how long in the depths of the ocean. 

Maybe she's really dead this time. Maybe, like Lykon, she's run out of lives and has finally become mortal. Maybe this is what comes after death: light and air.

She takes another deep breath and another and  _ another _ and—yes, her prison is definitely moving up towards the sky—and then everything's dark again.

***

There's a person sitting next to her when she wakes up. The light in the room is bright, though not as bright as last time. The color is wrong, though, cold and almost white instead of the warm yellow from the sun or a fire. 

Quynh frowns, her eyes squinting against the brightness, as she tries to get used to the light. She can make out the person's silhouette, can tell they're looking down at a rectangular thing small enough to fit in a hand. 

Her head hurts when she tries to focus more on the person. She feels drowsy and her thoughts are swimming in her mind. She doesn't think she died again after making it out of the water; she's far too tired for that. She must have passed out, more likely, from the shock of being in the air after who knows how long. 

Quynh's chest aches, too, and it's that familiar burn that makes her realize she's been unconsciously holding her breath. Her sharp exhale rattles against her throat, scratches its way out of her like shards of glass. She chokes on the feeling, and though it hurts worse than anything she's been through lately, she can't fight the coughing fit that takes her over immediately after.

Distantly, Quynh is mildly aware of hands around her shoulders, helping her up, bringing something cold to her lips, pushing water into her mouth. Quynh wants to fight the feeling of freezing water sliding past her throat. But she's too weak, even more so after the coughing, and all she can do as the water keeps pushing through and her consciousness starts to slip from her, is think that she doesn't want to drown again.

***

Her eyes have gotten used to the light by the time she wakes up again. Though she's sure some time must have passed, the light has not changed, still white and bright. Next to the bed sits a woman with dark skin and hair pulled back in tight braids, her eyes fixed on Quynh. She seems almost relieved to see her open her eyes, which makes Quynh suppose she must be the same person who was in the room the first time she woke up. 

The woman gives her a kind smile, though there's an edge to it that worries her. 

“You’re awake,” the woman says, and if Quynh had more energy, she would be rolling her eyes. What she does instead is let out a wheezing breath and turn her gaze to the ceiling.

The room isn’t very big. Beside the bed she’s in, there’s only a little bedside table, a chair—the one the woman is sitting on—and a metallic wardrobe on the far wall by the door. There’s a tiny window next to the bed, too far up for her to see much besides the blue sky above. Around her, the world sways from side to side in a way that makes her think they might still be at sea. A ship, probably. Quynh doesn’t know how long she spent underwater, so it’s valid to think vessels are no longer made of wood. 

She clenches her teeth. She hates this feeling of being unable to escape the sea, even now that she’s no longer underneath its surface. Next to her, the woman sighs and takes a glass of water from the table. Quynh stares at the glass for a second and her throat closes at the sight before she turns back towards the ceiling. She has no intention of repeating what happened last time she was awake. The woman sighs again.

“You need water,” she says. “The doctor says you’re not dehydrated, but you will be if you don’t drink anything.”

Quynh laughs, a raspy sound that rattles her to her core. It’d be a funny coincidence, she thinks, for dehydration to be the thing to kill her, really kill her, after all her time under water. The woman makes an inquiring sound. Quynh ignores her.

She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath, still marveling a little that she can do that. It’ll take some time, she thinks, to get used to life on the surface again.

***

The woman's name is Nile and she, along with two other people, is in charge of keeping Quynh company. That, Quynh knows, really means that the three of them are in charge of keeping an eye on her and making sure she doesn't do anything that could go against the safety of the ship and crew.

The other two people never talk to Quynh like Nile does. They only ever stand by the door or sit on the chair next to Quynh's bed, looking at her with barely disguised suspicion for as long as their shifts last. Nile is the only one interested in being cordial, the only one that finds a need to fill the silence in the room.

She explains things about the ship to Quynh. Nothing major—it's a military ship, apparently, and secrecy is an important thing in such a place—but small things. How the crew works, what the best times to visit the mess hall are, what the food is like, what she misses about home. She tells Quynh about her brother and mother, waiting for Nile at home. She tells her about her father who died in the military many years ago. She explains, whenever Quynh asks, what the different devices she has with her do, though she always gives Quynh a confused look when she does.

She asks questions too, in what Quynh thinks is supposed to be a subtle way, about who Quynh is, where she's come from, how she ended up at the bottom of the ocean. Quynh is good at avoiding direct answers. She doesn't outright lie, mostly because she doesn't know enough about the current age to be convincing, but she doesn't give straight answers either. She dances around any subject that involves her, gives only the vaguest of details when she can't get away with not saying anything.

If Nile notices this—and she must notice, surely—she doesn't comment on it. She's gracious enough to let Quynh keep her secrets. At least for now.

There are many things Quynh learns about the ship during her talks with Nile.

They are expected to remain in open waters for another three months, unless there's an emergency. After that, they'll be docking for some time before going back to sea. Nile doesn't expect she and the other marines will be needed on board after that, but there have been no clear orders on the matter, so right now it's just a matter of waiting. Quynh's appearance had been weird enough that some of the superior officers had debated docking before schedule, but in the end it had been decided that her presence didn't warrant such an action.

"It's better that they chose to wait," Nile mutters when she explains that but refuses to elaborate even with Quynh's prodding on the matter.

She also finds that they've given her an individual room usually reserved for higher ups instead of putting her in one of the crew's shared rooms or leaving her at the infirmary. The shared quarters were all mostly full and the infirmary was small. Since there was—bafflingly—nothing obviously wrong with her, it was better to leave the infirmary for those who might really need it.

***

They let her leave the room some time later, under strict supervision and only to certain parts of the ship. She still doesn't go out much, has no real reason to do so. Nile volunteers to keep her company while Quynh walks through metal hallways that all look the same and visits one of four places she’s allowed: the bathroom, the mess hall, the weights room to get her body back to full strength, and the infirmary. When they meet other people, which isn't often, Quynh is stared at with suspicion, though no one ever tries to get near them. Nile sighs every time it happens, but doesn't offer to elaborate.

Not the first few times, anyway.

They're back in the room, identical trays of bland food balanced on their laps after a walk around the social areas of the ship, when Nile speaks.

"They don't trust you. They think there's something odd about the way we found you." Quynh raises an eyebrow, but doesn't comment, waiting to see if Nile will say something else. When she doesn't, Quynh replies.

"Odd how?" She asks. Nile shrugs and takes a bite of her food to think her words over before answering.

"There were no signs of another ship anywhere near to where we found you," she mutters. "And you were far enough underwater that the pressure should have seriously harmed you. But besides the fainting towards the beginning, there was really no damage the doctors could see. It's just odd."

Quynh hums. She supposes to someone unaware of her immortality, it would all seem very odd indeed. She wonders what  _ odd _ means to the military of this unfamiliar nation. Dread fills her at the thought of what they might do when confronted with  _ odd. _

"They think I'm a witch," she says, bitterness turning her words sharp. She's not stupid; she's seen the cross around Nile's neck, and on many other members of the crew. And well, she's been through this before. It's not that strange that she doesn't want to relive the whole ordeal so soon after having finally escaped the consequences of being  _ odd _ .

Nile looks up at her, a confused frown on her face.

Quynh sighs. She's gathered that they're far further into the future than when she was thrown into the ocean. Exactly how long has passed is not as easy to figure out. There's no way to ask 'what year is it?' without raising questions she has no interest in answering. Still, she knows many years have passed. She'd hoped, when she first woke up, that times would have had the chance to change since then. Apparently not enough.

"Well, no," Nile says, but her words aren't as reassuring as they probably should be. Not when her eyes are dancing around the room, trying to focus on anything but Quynh.

“They won’t drown me,” Quynh says. A statement, not a question. If they wanted to drown her, they would have done it already. It’s not like there’s a shortage of water around, perfect for the job. 

Nile looks concerned. “Of course not.” 

Quynh hums. Nile's words, once again, do nothing to reassure. Quynh shudders at the thought of what the crew will do to her once they reach land. It’s easy to guess, based on Nile’s reactions, that they won’t just let her go. She can’t allow that, not when she’s finally free. 

The beginnings of a plan begin swirling around her head. She’ll have to leave the ship as soon as they reach dry land. No matter what, she has to run far away. And once she’s safe, she’ll begin searching for Andromache. 

***

"Andromache the Scythian," she says one day, unbidden. Nile, who's been doing push-ups off to one side, glances up at her with a questioning look. She doesn't stop her exercise, though, just raises an eyebrow to let Quynh know she should elaborate. "I have to find her."

"Is she a friend?" Nile asks in between repetitions.

"No." The word comes out just a bit too loud, too sharp, too angry. It does nothing to hide Quynh’s thoughts on the matter. "No. She was there when I—"

She cuts herself off, pointing simply at the ground in a way she hopes conveys the sea and Quynh's drowning. Nile hums in response and for a long while there's only silence around them.

“So it’s more a revenge thing? Finding her?” Nile asks, sitting on the floor with her knees bent. She points to her feet, silently asking Quynh to hold them for her while she sits up again and again.

“Maybe,” Quynh says with a shrug. Nile must notice the sharpness in her voice, though, because she freezes for a second before shrugging. She doesn’t look happy about it, but she’s also prudent and doesn’t push Quynh too much.

***

Outside, hurried footsteps echo in the metal halls. From her tiny window and in the dark of the night, she can just make out the outline of what seems to be another ship in the distance. The shape is all wrong, compared to her memories, but that no longer surprises her. She’s already come to terms with the fact that much has changed in the years she was underwater. She thinks they must have docked, though she can’t know where or why. She wishes Nile were here to explain everything. 

As if summoned, the door opens and Nile barges in, her usual composure nowhere to be seen.

“You’re leaving,” Nile says. Quynh levels a stare at her. Some other crewmate would have probably missed the signs of Quynh’s plan. Not Nile, though. She’s learnt to read her actions in their time together, learnt to interpret even the things Quynh doesn’t voice.

“Are you here to stop me?” She’d hate to fight Nile, after all this time, but she will if she has to. Sentimentalism isn’t something she clings to after all that’s happened. Nile shakes her head, though, and thrusts a light brown bag at her.

“It won’t be easy. And I can’t help you, but maybe this will.” Quynh takes the bag and peeks inside. There’s a phone, different from Nile’s but still similar enough to be recognizable, a pocket knife, and a stack of paper money. Quynh nods, closes the bag again. “My number’s on that phone, in case there’s an emergency. If anyone asks, I had nothing to do with this.”

“Thank you.” Nile nods, looks at her feet for a second before fixing her eyes on Quynh’s. 

“Be safe,” she says. A second passes before she speaks again. “I’ll get in trouble if anyone finds out. You’ll have to knock me out before you leave. I’ll say I was trying to stop you.”

Quynh nods too and doesn’t wait a second before hitting Nile hard enough for her to crumple to the floor. At the sight of her unconscious form, Quynh allows herself a pang of regret. She doesn’t dwell on it. 

“Be safe,” she whispers before slipping out the door.

***

She walks for almost two hours before stopping in front of a small building half hidden behind an alleyway on the other side of the town. Above the door, there's a sign that she deciphers as announcing rooms for rent. It lists a number underneath that Quynh thinks doesn't sound too high. She could probably have reached the building much faster had she taken the main roads but she’d decided early on to go through the smaller streets instead, both to avoid being seen and to stay away from the terrifyingly fast metal vehicles flashing by.

Inside, the place is old but well kept. There's an elderly woman sitting behind a desk, her face focused on a screen in front of her. Quynh walks up to the desk and puts on her brightest smile. On the way here, she'd caught a few conversations. The written and spoken language is similar to the one Yusuf taught her, back when he and Nicolò first joined them. It's different, yes, changed by time just like the rest of the world has, but it's similar enough that Quynh can stumble her way through a polite conversation with the old woman.

She asks for a room and pays for a whole week with some of Nile's paper money. She doesn't know how long she'll stay, so she promises to pay for another week once the first has passed. The old woman painstakingly counts every bill before nodding and putting the stack inside a small safe. She hands over a key and points towards the staircase behind her desk. 

***

Quynh dreams of a man she’s never met. At first, it reminds her a little of the time she dreamt of Andromache. Before, when they had yet to meet. It’s not quite the same, though. Where Andromache had been full of drive and pure determination, this man is filled with sadness and a guilt so deep that Quynh feels like she’s drowning in it.

A part of her grows to dread it, the pull of the man’s emotions and experiences that drag her down into a pit of despair she doesn’t know how to escape. Another part of her, the one that's boiling with resentment, whispers about possible opportunities.

For some time, she's almost ready to ignore the dreams completely. But one morning she wakes up with the image of Andromache fresh in her mind. The angle she was looking at her in the dream was wrong, too high to be Quynh’s body. Andromache’s hair was shorter, too, than it used to be, and her face was somehow different, harsher than Quynh ever remembered seeing. 

Quynh smiles when the pieces gather in her mind. She has little chance to find Andromache on her own; the world, after all, is big enough to keep them apart. But this man, whoever he is, has met Andromache. He might be just who she needs.

***

She wakes one morning gasping, the image of a man slitting her throat fresh on her mind. She thinks if she focuses really hard, she can almost feel the chill of the blade, taste her own blood, feel its rush as it leaves her.

It takes her a minute to realize it’s not actually her who’s dying, bleeding on the floor. It takes a couple more minutes of replaying the memory in her mind to realize she knows who the person who’s just died is. Nile.

Quynh chuckles, only a little hysterical at the thought of them meeting before Nile’s immortality was revealed. She’d blame fate if she hadn’t lost any optimism long ago. As it is, she just shakes her head and tries not to dwell too much on it all before fishing the phone Nile gave her out from under a pile of clothes.

She slowly clicks buttons, the way Nile showed her, a concentrated furrow to her brow, and types a short message:  _ be safe. _

Nile doesn’t reply.

***

Finding Booker, as she’s learnt the man is called, isn’t an easy task. Quynh has nothing more than snatches of memories and current events, and it’s hard to tell them apart.

There’s a recurrent place, though, where she often sees the man. A small, messy apartment with views over a city. In the distance, Quynh can just make out a metallic structure towering over the buildings. It seems distinct enough and so she does her best to draw it on a sheet of paper and asks the old woman who works the desk if she knows where that structure is. 

“Paris,” the woman says, which isn’t that big a clue but at least it gives Quynh a place to begin her search. Quynh thanks her with a tight smile and goes back to her room to pack the few things she’s acquired since arriving in the city.

In Paris, the dreams are stronger, more detailed, and she knows she’s getting closer. She finds him, eventually, wasting away in his apartment. He’s startled when he first sees her in his home, but he takes to her presence surprisingly fast. Quynh wonders why a man as sad as Booker, in clear need of human contact, would distance himself from others.

***

She doesn’t know the whole story, only bits and pieces from dreams and what little Booker lets slip. That’s fine. Quynh doesn’t need to know everything. She just needs Andromache’s location.

Booker is tight-lipped, though. He puts up a good front, walks around with half-drunk bottles of liquor, and looks at her with glossy eyes whenever she asks him questions. Quynh can tell only some of that is true and most of it is an act. It’d be a convincing act if he weren’t so coherent when talking about anything other than Andromache and the immortals. It’s almost impressive how good he is at deflecting.

But no matter how good an actor Booker is, how quiet he can keep, Quynh is nothing if not patient. She hasn’t spent the last five centuries underwater just to lose her patience now. She’s waited this long, she can surely wait until his control slips.

And it does. Not often and never for more than a couple minutes before he notices, but little by little, Quynh begins piecing together the information she needs. 

Booker’s been exiled because of something he did, and she can’t help a twinge of kinship at that, even if their circumstances are so different. She knows what being forced apart is like, what feeling adrift from the others can do to a person. 

He doesn’t know where the others are. Officially speaking, at least. Quynh can see something in his eyes when he tells her that he’s not allowed to look for them, something that gleams—sad, yes, but also almost mischievous, something that tells her there’s more to his words than he lets on. She can work with that.

He worries about the others, too. That surprises Quynh. They’ve thrown him away for whatever it is he did, have forbidden him from contacting them. And yet he still worries, still keeps their secrets. Quynh almost wishes she could be as naïve—or forgiving—as Booker is. 

At night, when she lies on Booker’s spare bed and stares at the ceiling, she almost wishes her insides weren’t burning with rage and vengeance. She’s gotten good at ignoring those wishes. She has a goal in mind and can’t afford to lose sight of it.

***

Booker’s phone buzzes on the coffee table. From his spot lying on the couch, Booker barely glances at it, eyes half-lidded and lazy. The flask that rests on his chest glints in the light coming from the open window. Quynh stares at him from the kitchen where she’s been heating up leftovers to eat. Funny that she’s the responsible one of the two of them, how Booker would be more than happy to starve himself over and over again. She thinks she can understand, in a way, the sadness that always surrounds Booker like a blanket, the feeling of giving up. But as someone who’s spent the last few centuries dying, she can’t allow him to keep destroying himself like that. 

Maybe he’ll thank her one day, maybe he won’t. It’s not like she cares. This is a matter of principles, and of necessity. That’s all.

“You aren’t going to answer?” She asks, turning the stove off and walking towards the living room, steps deliberately slow. 

Booker sighs but he doesn’t move.

“It’s probably telemarketers,” he says, voice raspy, words only slightly slurred. “They always manage to get this number, no matter what I do.”

Quynh hums as she takes the phone. Despite Booker’s uninterested look, she can feel his eyes glued to her. The phone buzzes in her hand and her gaze is drawn to the name on the top of the screen:  _ Copley _ . Interesting. She clicks on the green circle at the bottom and then on the speaker button. 

“Booker,” a voice says, sharp, to the point. 

Quynh hears the rustle of fabric as Booker sits up and she can see a panicked set to his wide eyes when she turns towards him. Booker moves almost too fast for someone who’s been drinking nonstop for the last day. He surges towards her, not caring about the flask that falls and spills its contents on the floor. He’s still a little clumsier than he would have been sober, and Quynh sidesteps him with ease before taking her knife and pressing it to Booker’s throat. It’s a new knife she got before leaving for Paris, bigger and sharper than the one Nile gave her, though she still keeps the other one with her. Just in case. 

Her eyes bore into his, the command obvious to the two of them:  _ speak.  _

Silence stretches for a moment longer before the voice on the other side comes again. “Booker. You there?”

“Yeah. Yeah, sorry,” Booker rasps, eyes jumping from the phone to the knife to Quynh’s face and back again. His shoulders slump slightly forwards, the knife pressing closer at the movement. He raises a hand, palm out in surrender. “What is it?”

“There’s a mission. The others need your help.”

“I find that hard to believe,” Booker replies, and Quynh can’t help rolling her eyes at his self-deprecating tone. 

On the other side, the voice laughs.

“It took some convincing, but they all think it’s for the best.” 

Booker grunts, though how much is at the words and how much at the knife, Quynh can’t quite say. 

“When?”

“Within the week. I’ll send you the details.” There’s a moment of silence and then something that sounds like a sigh. “Don’t bail on them, okay? This is progress you can’t afford to lose.”

“Right,” Booker says just before the line clicks dead.

Quynh puts the knife away and sets the phone back on the table. Booker stands in place, eyes downcast, hands fisted by his sides. She rolls her eyes at the sight.

“I’ll pack our bags, then,” she says, because she really doesn’t trust him to pack the things they’ll need. 

She’s been with him for a couple months already, and it’s not an exaggeration to say he’s a disaster. Her words spur him into motion, though, and she barely has time to blink before he’s grabbing her by the wrist and pulling her close so they’re eye to eye. There’s something feral in his gaze, something dangerous, a spark that would have scared her if she weren’t so much older than him, if she hadn’t been through all she has. As it is, though, all it does is make her smirk. So he isn’t completely useless, she thinks. Good.

“You’re not coming,” he grits through clenched teeth. “I know what you’re after and I won’t let you hurt them. I won’t let you hurt  _ her _ .”

Quynh tilts her head to the side and lets her mouth form a sweet smile. He blinks in surprise at the gesture and she takes that second of hesitation to slam her free fist against his neck. He lets her go, hands flying to his neck in between gasps. 

She doesn’t give him a chance to breathe. As soon as she’s free, Quynh adjusts the knife in one hand and holds him by the shirt with the other. He does his best to shake her off but freezes when a second later Quynh buries the knife in his abdomen.

“Oh, Booker,” she whispers, twisting the blade clockwise before yanking it out and repeating the process until she hits an artery. She’s still smiling, but even she can feel its dangerous edge. “I’m not asking for your permission.”

***

When Booker starts breathing again, there are two backpacks sitting by his side on the living room floor. Quynh watches him closely as he eyes the bags, but he seems more resigned than anything. Good. She doubts he’ll be as easy to kill a second time, now that he knows how she moves. Not that she expects any real challenge, but still.

“Go get changed,” she says. 

He furrows his brow but gets up from the floor nonetheless. 

“Copley texted you. The mission isn’t for a couple of days, but I want to get there before the actual thing.”

Booker grunts as he walks towards his bedroom, steps awkward and stiff. Just before entering the room, he turns back and looks at Quynh with fire in his eyes.

“I meant what I said. Come if you want, but I won’t let you hurt her.”

Booker disappears behind his door and Quynh rolls her eyes. She’s not worried. She knows she can take him, even if she doesn’t have the element of surprise. 

***

They arrive at the agreed city after half a day of travel. They rented an old car to get there, and although the drive was tense, at least it didn’t involve boats.

There are two safe houses in this city, according to Booker. The one where the two of them will be staying is on the outskirts, an old dilapidated thing hidden among a cluster of abandoned factories. The other one, where the others are staying, is somewhere towards the west, though Booker hasn’t given her any details. 

He’s back in possession of his phone and has settled a meeting place in a shop downtown with the others. Without access to that conversation, Quynh can’t know exactly where it will take place, and Booker refuses to show her during their walk around town after their arrival.

He refuses, too, to let her come to the meeting. Quynh has half a mind to follow him anyway, but decides against it in the end. Better to get to them after the mission’s over. They’ll be weary then. It’ll be easier to catch Andromache by surprise, truly unsuspecting, right after she’s returned, victorious, from a battle. Because Andromache is always victorious in a fair fight, always radiant, magnificent. Even through the haze of her rage, Quynh can still see her glorious form, almost shining against the fallen corpses of her enemies. But it’s a glow she knows will quickly give way to tiredness, centuries piling on top of her like stones. A reminder that even if a battle won’t be the death of Andromache, it’ll still carve away at her until there’s nothing but dust and feeble memories left.

Besides, Quynh thinks, two days later as Booker leaves for his meeting, he’ll probably tell them all about her. He might act useless sometimes, but he’d have to be an idiot to try and keep her a secret. And Quynh knows for a fact he’s not an idiot. He wouldn’t make the same mistake twice. All that, though, is irrelevant. What is important is that, if Booker tells the others about her, they’ll have their guard down when she comes to them. Even if Booker warns them of her anger, of her intentions, they’ll either think he’s lying or exaggerating. Especially Andromache, always too fast to trust those close to her. 

Better to have them all expecting her presence but not her attack. It’ll make it easier to get close and do what she has to do.

***

Her assessment proves right. After he returns from the mission, tired and bloodied, Booker sits on the kitchen counter with a sigh and looks closely at Quynh. His voice, when he finally speaks, is worn in a way that suggests more than mere physical exhaustion.

“Andy wants to see you,” he says, sounding resigned. “But I would prefer if you didn’t come.”

Quynh bites her tongue to keep herself from saying she doesn’t care what he’d prefer. From the look he gives her, he already knows. Instead she smiles, soft and sweet, though she feels none of that.

“How could I refuse?” 

Inside her jacket pocket, Quynh’s hand clenches around the knife handle.

***

Andromache stands with her hands clenched, face set into something hard, like she’s preparing for a fight. Except not really. Quynh has seen her right before a battle countless times in the past. This isn’t quite that. This is more like the look she had for years after Lykon’s death whenever she looked at one of the other immortals. It’s the look of someone who is about to see the remains of a loved one before the corpse is dealt with. Quynh has to stop at the doorway, caught in the intensity of that look. 

They’re at the other safe house. An odd choice, in Quynh’s opinion, but her concern isn’t about where she meets Andromache, just that she does. Booker stands by her side, arms crossed and caution written all over his face. Yusuf and Nicolò mirror him behind Andromache, though they are less guarded and more hopeful. Under different circumstances, Quynh would have been glad to see them standing so close together, so obviously still  _ together _ . Nile is there too, which is more shocking than it should have been, considering. She’s sitting at the kitchen’s table, looking between Andromache and Quynh with a calculating gaze.

“Quynh,” Andromache says, finally. The word rolls off her tongue like a prayer to a long forgotten god. Then again, softer still, “Quynh.”

Quynh fights off a shiver. Andromache is there, steps away from her, as radiant as ever. She hasn’t changed, physically, at least. Her features are still the same, even when they are framed by shorter hair, or when she’s dressed in different clothes from what Quynh remembers her wearing. She looks the same, yes, but there’s something in her eyes, a shadow of something deep and heavy, something that weighs down her shoulders. Nevertheless, Andromache is  _ there _ , different yet unchanged, finally within reach. And Quynh’s insides churn with too many emotions to understand.

“Andromache,” she says, and then stops. 

Why is her voice shaking? Why is  _ she _ shaking? She takes a deep breath, feels her chest expanding to make way for the air entering her lungs, reminds herself she is out of the water, far away from harm. When she opens her eyes again, the storm inside has calmed down enough to be nothing but background noise. Slowly, deliberately, Quynh looks at everyone present one by one before focusing back on Andromache. 

“I have much I’d like to say but—”

Andromache’s eyes haven’t left hers, but they do now, following the same path Quynh’s had just seconds before. Understanding paints her face, and she offers her hand to guide Quynh away from the kitchen and towards a door off to the side. Booker takes a quick step towards them.

“Andy,” he says, his voice sharp. 

Andromache just looks at him fiercely until he backs away. 

“We’ll be fine,” she says. “Only a door away.”

She doesn’t let go of Quynh’s hand until the room’s door has closed behind them. Even when they move further inside, she remains only a few steps away, as if afraid Quynh will disappear if she moves too far.

“Quynh,” she says again. Her voice is steadier this time, but no less reverent. “I thought I’d never see you again.”

Quynh looks down, her vision suddenly clouding, lungs struggling to take in enough air. Memories distorted by time and pain dance in front of her eyes for a minute before she can get her breathing under control again. Once she does, she looks back at Andromache’s face and carefully slips a hand inside her jacket pocket.

“As did I,” she says. 

There’s a moment of deafening silence. Quynh can hear her own heart beating loudly in the room. So loud, in fact, she’s sure the others can hear it from the other side. Andromache opens her mouth to speak again but she seems unable to make any sound. 

Instead, what she does is close the distance between them again, pull Quynh hard against her, lean down so that their faces are at the same height. Quynh imitates her movements, quick to adapt to the situation. 

Everything is suddenly too fast. Andromache tightens her arms even more, and Quynh closes her eyes at the feeling of warm breath on her face. She moves her hand out of her pocket and against Andromache’s body, and Andromache leans even closer, and—

A choked off sound, between a whimper and a scream, cuts through Quynh’s thoughts. At the same time, they both look down at Andromache’s side. Quynh is almost startled at the warm red stain slowly growing against her fingers. She breathes in and out several times to remind her body this isn’t a product of an active imagination, thirsty for revenge. Then she looks back up.

Andromache is looking at her. She doesn’t look shocked or surprised or betrayed or any other feeling that would make sense in this situation. She looks almost resigned. Sad, maybe, but mostly resigned. As if this is her end, as if—

No.

Quynh’s hand jerks away so violently she rips the knife out of the wound and sends it flying across the room. Andromache whimpers again at the movement, louder this time, but doesn’t move away. She leans down, instead, captures Quynh’s lips in a kiss that is both achingly familiar and unlike anything she’s ever felt. Quynh’s eyes are wide, her entire body is shaking, her mind a chant of  _ no, no, no _ . Outside the room, she can hear chairs scraping the floor and hurried steps.

***

It’s not fair, she thinks, hands pressing hopelessly at Andromache’s side. There’s blood falling from the wound, a constant  _ drip, drip  _ in the deafening silence that surrounds them. It’s not fair because Andromache’s lips are on hers, trembling slightly against the pain from her wound. It’s not fair because Quynh’s knife has fallen to the floor, and because the kiss is still as earth-shattering as Quynh remembers. But she can’t focus on it because  _ Andromache’s not healing.  _

Quynh is angry, so angry. Andromache’s there, finally there after so long, and all Quynh can think is  _ no, this isn’t how it’s supposed to go. _ They’re supposed to have millennia together, now that Quynh is free. They’re supposed to kill each other for a century like Nicolò and Yusuf did. They’re supposed to fix things slowly until they’re back to the relationship they once had. They’re supposed to have time. Instead, there’s blood dripping on the floor, and Andromache’s sad smile as she pulls away from their kiss.

They have a second before the door flies open and four figures come rushing in. Quynh stands on shaky legs and almost collapses against Nile, who quickly wraps her arms around her in restraint, but it's oddly comforting. She sees Yusuf kneel next to Andromache and put pressure on the wound as Booker and Nicolò pull out medicine and bandages from a small bag. They seem so far away, so blurry, as if she were seeing them from below the water's surface. The thought almost makes her scream. She keeps her eyes fixed on Andromache, barely breathing as the three of them work with quick meticulous movements. They’ve done this before, she thinks. They know how to do this and how to do it quickly. Even Booker, who has been in exile, knows how to treat wounds. 

This isn’t knowledge they should have. This isn’t something people like them should need. But, then again, Andromache is still bleeding. She’s no longer immortal, no longer able to throw off any harm that may come her way. She’ll die and there’s nothing any of them can do about it, no matter how much they wish they could.

_ It’s not fair _ , she thinks again, as Yusuf stands and picks up the knife, putting it in his pocket. And though Quynh’s body is still static with shock, her mind is going through a million plans and ideas that probably won’t work but—well, she needs hope, now. If anger isn’t going to work anymore, then hope is the only thing that will keep her going.

***

They eat dinner together that night, all of them sitting around the table. It’s an awkward, silent affair.

Andromache has regained some of the color on her cheeks but she still winces every time she moves too fast. The wound, turns out, wasn’t deep and thankfully didn’t hit anything vital. Though Quynh tries to keep her thoughts from circling around the memory over and over, she can’t help but wonder if maybe a part of her had held back.

Booker has that look on his face that tells Quynh he wants nothing more than to be drunk. Truly drunk. Nicolò and Yusuf alternate between exchanging looks from either side of the table and fixing their eyes on Quynh. They seem cautious. And Nile, who’s sitting next to Quynh, has her eyes fixed on her food, brow furrowed in a way that tells Quynh she has something to say but doesn’t want to say it in present company. That’s fine. Quynh doesn’t want to hear it. She just wants to be done and to go. 

Her mind has been reeling ever since the stabbing and she’s come to the conclusion that she cannot stay here with them, can’t trust that she won’t do this again. She’s come to the conclusion that since Andromache only has one life left, she might as well let her live it. 

She doesn’t want to go, though. Not really. She wants to stay and fix this, find a way to bring Andromache’s immortality back, to make things right again. But at the same time, she still wants to  _ end  _ her, once and for all. And that is something that she can’t allow, something none of the others will allow. 

So she eats her dinner, quiet, as all of them are quiet. She avoids looking at any of them for longer than a handful of seconds at a time, and once things are done, she brings her plate over to the sink and tries to keep her hands from shaking as she washes it. She’s had practice, living with Booker, though normally he’s the one to wash the dishes, not her. And after that is done, she walks to her room, closes the door, and sits with her back against it, waiting patiently until there's no more noise around the house, until she’s sure they’ve all gone to bed. 

That’s when she leaves, her mind focused.

Her things and Booker’s are still at the other safe house. She’s learnt the way well enough to navigate there in the night. It's not far. She walks in quick steps until she reaches the place and finds the room she slept in those first few days, then packs her few belongings and thinks of what comes next.

Her thoughts, though confused, all say the same thing: she has to go now. Although, as she takes one thing and the next and pushes them into her bag, she can’t help but wonder if maybe there are other options, if maybe there could be a way of—well, of fixing everything. But there isn’t. She has to leave, and do it quickly, before anyone thinks to stop her.

That’s the plan, at least. As she shoves her jacket inside the bag, her fingers brush against Nile’s pocket knife. Carefully, she pulls it out. At the sight of it, she’s overcome by a wave of anger and bitter memories, by the impulse to take the knife and plunge it deep inside—someone, anyone. She doesn’t, mostly because there’s no one around to stab, but also because stabbing hasn’t worked out so well for her lately. Better find some other outlet for the anger that has been building inside of her for so long, she thinks. Or, at least, better to find someone else to take that anger out on; someone whose death won’t burden Quynh’s conscience. Yes, that sounds like a good new plan.

***

“Quynh!” 

The shout rings through the safe house's rooms, making Quynh freeze with her backpack in hand. She can hear quick steps moving around. Only one set of them, if she's hearing correctly, but she doubts the others are far behind.

She doesn't get time to do much more than throw the knife on the bed before the door to the room flies open. Andromache stands on the other side, her eyes wide, chest heaving from the effort of walking here.

“Quynh,” she repeats, quieter this time. “I thought you’d left.”

Quynh can't help a bitter laugh. That was the plan. If she hadn't lost her focus, if she hadn't stood there thinking about what had happened, she would already have left. But her thoughts have been overwhelming ever since she was drowned, and discovering Andromache's no longer immortal has only made them worse.

Andromache steps towards her, eyes careful on Quynh's hands, as if expecting a new knife to appear. It's a fair precaution, Quynh thinks. Her fingers, after all, are itching to close around any of the weapons she has with her.

She doesn't. Instead, her hand flies up towards Andromache's face, settles against the curve of her jaw, her thumb tracing slow patterns against the skin.

“You don't have to go,” Andromache says, her voice a whisper. 

Quynh shakes her head. She never expected Andromache to become this naive. Her hand closes in a fit of rage around the lock of hair that falls against Andromache's temples. With sick satisfaction she feels, , more than hears, Andromache's sharp inhale, sees her head tilt to the side when Quynh pulls just a little too hard.

“I do,” Quynh says, straining to keep her voice level, to avoid showing the shakiness that's taken her over. 

Andromache opens her mouth, clearly ready to argue, but Quynh pulls hard on her hair until they're both at the same height. Andromache hisses, and that second is enough for Quynh to start talking again. 

“I do, Andromache. Because I'm angry. So angry it scares me sometimes. So angry I feel it burning me from the inside out. And I hate you. I've hated you for so long that I've forgotten how to feel anything else when thinking of your name. I wanted to find you and kill you, over and over again until you knew my pain by heart. But not like this.”

Quynh takes a deep breath, forcing her fingers to relax and let go of Andromache's hair before pulling her hand away. Andromache sways forward a little, and Quynh ignores how it seems like she's chasing after Quynh.

“I loved you once, too,” Quynh continues, softer now, almost sad. “I’ll have to remember how that felt before I see you again. No matter what I feel now, I won’t be the reason you die for real. That’s not how it’s supposed to go.”

Andromache raises a hand towards her, pain clear on her face and only growing when Quynh steps away. Quynh shakes her head, moves around Andromache towards the door. She doesn’t say goodbye as she makes her way out of the room and the safe house.

She’s walked a good ten blocks before she realizes she left the pocket knife. Maybe it’s for the best, she thinks, to avoid temptation.

***

Booker doesn't look surprised to see Quynh sitting on his apartment's sofa. After opening the door, he lets out a long sigh, more out of resignation than anything else, and takes out his flask.

"I had a hunch I'd see you here," he says after a long drink. 

Quynh raises an eyebrow at him, but is quick to focus her attention on the book between her hands. One of Booker's, of course, not that he'll be happy about that.

"Have they not forgiven you, then?" she asks, because if he's going to be a nuisance, she can be too. 

Booker sighs again, more tiredly this time.

"It's a work in progress," he says after a moment of silence. Then, with no little hesitation, he takes a small package out of his backpack and throws it at her. "Here. Andy asked me to give this to you if I ever saw you again."

Quynh catches the package reflexively, letting the old book fall to the floor as she does.

"Thank you," she mutters, as she turns the package around in her hands. 

It's light, something cold and hard covered in brown paper and tied with a piece of dark red string. Nothing fancy, but so very Andromache it makes her heart ache a little.

She tears a corner back to open it. Her hand clenches so hard at the sight of the pocket knife inside that its ridges dig painfully into her palm. Taped to its handle is a cardboard rectangle with a string of numbers neatly written on it.  _ When you’re ready _ , it reads. Quynh sees red and all she wants to do is break something for a second before she can get her mind back under control.

From his spot by the door, Booker makes a questioning sound, which she ignores in favor of getting off the couch and walking towards the spare bedroom.

"You should make some dinner," she says with a tight lipped smile before closing the door.

The knife is still firmly clutched in her hand so she forces her fingers open and puts it inside a drawer, underneath a stack of clothing.  _ When you’re ready _ , she thinks, as she closes the drawer. 

She definitely isn’t ready now, probably won’t be for a long time. But maybe, this can be the hope to keep her going. Maybe she can believe she’ll be ready one day, sooner rather than later, sometime before Andromache’s inevitable death. Maybe.

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me on tumblr [here](https://misty--nights.tumblr.com/)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Art for mistynights' story](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28454787) by [mific](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mific/pseuds/mific)




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